On I-75 someplace flat
Miami and Tampa
(the alligators snake through swampgrass
the fields wheat or water
the highway might collapse&consume me)
This car is a sea-scrap shell—I’m a hermit crab
growing monstrous in an artificial womb.
The storm broke up
Cuba and Miami when it hit
Hollywood scattered splotches
foaming skies on I-95
wife before mother (mine)
They had the same name.
What are the odds?
Of him leaving her, Continue reading
Her gravestone is never too dirty to be new.
It isn’t, though. New, an ancestor
But ancestor is for the long passed. Continue reading
In the Shenandoah Valley,
I-81’s long stretch of midnight,
there’s a metropolis of a truck stop,
a megaplex for tractor trailers
to rest like dragons on their loot
while drivers crowd into the diner
for the late night buffet. Continue reading
When I was three, filled with the exuberance of childhood,
I ran down a dirt road in the cloud of innocence and fell. Continue reading